


Love You, Little Brother

by Sherlock1110



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Dom Mycroft, Handcuffs, Kneeling, M/M, Mycroft/Sherlock - Freeform, Punishment, Restraints, Sub Sherlock, no actual incest, posture collars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110
Summary: Sherlock shot Magnussen, he also committed treason. Oh and there was the drug use…Mycroft, as his Dom, has to deal with that.Set in the middle of TST





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by Sherlockian4evr

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock ordered from where he lay on the sofa in 221B Baker Street.

“Charming as ever, little brother.” Mycroft's tone was nonchalant and he made no move to turn and leave. Sherlock hadn't really been expecting him to, but he lived in hope that one day it would work.

“You are, of course, my older brother and continually point out how your intelligence is far greater than my own. Is it, with a head as large as yours, you've forgotten the meaning of the words 'piss off'?”

“Don't play stupid, Sherlock. You may appear stupid to me, but to the rest of the world, you're something of a celebrity genius. It wouldn't do for your brain to begin to dwindle even further away from mine. You know exactly why I am here and you know exactly why I won't walk away.”

Sherlock rolled over on the sofa so he could look his brother up and down. He sighed, straightened up in the chair and planted his feet on the floor. “Why now?” He asked instead.

“Because I think you've had ample time to… gather yourself and not once have you attempted to thank me nor made any attempt to apologise.”

Sherlock's brow furrowed. “For what?”

The government official took a moment and slipped one hand into his pocket, sighing heavily. “Sherlock, you may have got off scot free, but why is that?”

The detective rolled his eyes, “John and Mary are upstairs.”

“Then you'd best behave,” Mycroft whispered dangerously. He had no desire to start this with Sherlock where all of Baker Street could hear it, but if his brother wanted to act the brat, then he would. It would be Sherlock who was embarrassed, not himself.

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again, practically straight away.

“Why do you think you've got away without charge, Sherlock?” He made a point to growl his brother's name, hoping he'd see sense and cooperate, but highly doubting it at the same time.

“Because you need me. That's the only reason. Why would I thank you?”

“Do you not think I could deal with James Moriarty on my own?”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “He's dead, Mycroft.”

“Precisely my point, brother-mine. He's not back, so why are you here?”

Sherlock froze and eyed his brother again, he could see the problem developing here. No Moriarty meant no national crisis, no national crisis meant no need for Sherlock.

The government official was leaning forward dangerously, as if he was about to lunge at his brother.

After a split second Mycroft did just that, he straightened his jacket - slowly - which made Sherlock slightly nervous, then he stepped forward and gripped him around the throat. “Now, you're in no trouble, why?”

Sherlock thought about it - really thought - for a moment, at least.

But Mycroft had had enough of the games, not prepared to give Sherlock more than one chance per question. He tightened his grip around his brother throat until he tried to reply, then he loosened it just a fraction, giving him the freedom to speak, but no more.

“Because of you,” Sherlock's voice was softer than usual, anybody else would put that down to the grip around his neck, but Mycroft knew better, it was the first signs of Sherlock surrendering.

“Precisely. But that was the murder charge.”

Sherlock stopped fighting, not bothering to resist as his eyes went wide, understanding blooming.

“You've deduced my being here then, have you?”

“Mycroft-”

“No. You may or may not have had good intensions with your little trip to Appledore but either way, you committed treason, Sherlock.”

“What about John?”

“John may not be up to your intelligence, little brother, but he is no fool. He wouldn't aimlessly walk into a house that was of potential murderous. He went, because you went. He'd follow you to the end of the universe, so in a way I rather think I'm helping him.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to find a different approach.

“The treason thing is a lie.”

Mycroft chuckled dryly. “Sherlock, you didn't take my laptop for a laugh. Not even you are that naive.”

Sherlock growled, ignoring Mycroft's hand which tightened again at his throat. “Magnussen had none of the information on that laptop.”

“You went there to sell it to him. For the price of Mary.”

“And? She's alive, John's got the wife he loves despite her shortcomings. How many times have I let him down? Not again. Did you know that through Mary, Magnussen controlled you?”

Mycroft frowned. “Don't be absurd.”

“I'd steal your laptop again and I'd shoot Magnussen again too.”

“You're not pleading your case very well, little brother.”

“Saving Mary had a knock on effect as far back as you.”

“Explain.” Mycroft wasn't stupid enough to let Sherlock more than a matter of inches from him because of the likelihood he would bolt, but he needed to know what he was talking about.

“Magnussen used those ideas of 'pressure points'. Weaknesses.”

“I know all this, now get to the point and stop playing for time. I assure you, John and Mary are fast asleep and will be for several hours.”

Sighing, Sherlock ignored his brother's hand and continued.

“Your 'pressure point' is what, big brother?”

“You,” he wasn't embarrassed to admit that. Of course he loved him more than anything, it went without saying. Mycroft straightened up again now, knowing for a fact Sherlock would find explaining something to his cleverer older brother irresistible.

“Of course, now excusing you, who would mine be?”

“John Watson.” Wasn't that obvious?

“Excusing me, his would be Mary, so through Mary, he controlled… you.”

“If you're trying to persuade me not to go ahead with what I have planned…” he sighed and leant heavily on his umbrella for a moment. “Sherlock, you throw yourself into situations without thinking of the consequences. The information on that laptop was for the security of the entire UK, not just one person.”

Sherlock didn't offer a reply so Mycroft cleared his throat. “It wasn't just one person I was protecting. It was 3.”

The government official shook his head, slowly. “If you had come to me rather than try and take Magnussen out alone, I could have helped you.”

“After you left the flat that day with your little friends, he turned up here, John was outraged when he pissed in there.” He pointed towards the fireplace. “But he was-”

“Enough, Sherlock. You're prolonging the inevitable for no reason. Now, your cuffs are in your bedroom, I believe?”

“No.” Sherlock didn't know why he bothered lying. It only made things worse on himself. Even Mrs. Hudson would have been able to tell it was a lie.

“Get up.”

For no reason but sheer stubbornness, Sherlock refused to move. He glared pointedly at his brother, making it quite clear he refused to participate.

Mycroft dropped his umbrella to the side and lunged at his brother, properly this time, not some half hearted attempt to get him to cooperate.

Of course, following that, a scuffle ensued. Sherlock should have known he couldn't win. He'd got the upper hand over Mycroft only once before and he'd been high. He was very, very not high now. Mycroft turning up was the first time in days that John had let him out of his sight, going to so much as to kip on the sofa if Sherlock stayed in his chair or the random plastic chair in Sherlock's bedroom. The closest Sherlock got to winning was his knee 2 inches from Mycroft's bollocks for a matter of 30 seconds before Mycroft flipped the tactic.

Switching the tactic so easily gave him the upper hand as he wedged his knee between Sherlock's legs, pressing right up against his bollocks. He used one hand to grip a thin flailing wrist that he pinned up his back and used the other to push his brother's head into the arm of the chair.

“Behave, brother-mine, you'll find this far more comfortable.”

Sherlock hissed and tried to fight his way free. He didn't get anything out of it, but a more painful arm.

“When I move my knee you aren't going to kick out like a child, you are going to let me pull you to your feet. Are we clear?”

“Mycroft, if you think I'm- argh!” He yelled into the arm of the chair as the older Holmes pressed tighter in all the areas of Sherlock he had control over.

“Yes!” He snapped after a moment.

“Try again, little brother.”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered quietly. He didn't know if he had missed his brother's dominant side or not.

Cautiously, Mycroft edged his knee backwards until it was off the chair. He decided against getting him upright slowly and instead yanked him to his feet, using his arm up his back and the scruff of his neck as leverage.

Sherlock choked, his head pulled back, but Mycroft ignored him. “Walk. We will continue this in the safe confines of your soundproofed bedroom.”

Mycroft had ensured that had happened many years ago, when Sherlock had moved in in the first place, John had no idea, nor did Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft kicked the door shut and locked it behind them. He shoved Sherlock over the bed.

“Stay!” He barked, causing Sherlock to flinch and cower into the bed clothes more than he had expected.

“Put your hands behind you,” he ordered when he'd found the cuffs in a pair of Sherlock's shoes.

“If you-”

“Now!”

Sherlock pressed his face into his bed and pushed his arms around behind him. Mycroft gripped one wrist in his hand and quickly buckled it to the other one.

Then he reached forward and grabbed his brother by the scruff of the neck. Sherlock hung limply from his grip, but Mycroft didn't believe for a second that was the end of his temper tantrum.

He took him to the corner and pressed him to his knees by a hand on his shoulder and his foot in the back of his leg

“Position, Sherlock.”

With a huff, the detective straightened up and cross his legs at the ankle. He wasn't surprised when Mycroft slipped a posture collar around his neck. It always stopped him fighting, because it overbalanced him, one thing he didn't want was to be even more humiliated than what Mycroft was already going to do to him.

Sherlock heard the bedroom door open and close again, but couldn't turn around to observe properly.

He closed his eyes to wait. Being in the corner should have been boring, but it never was. Mycroft always put him there in an attempt to either calm him down or prepare him for the punishment ahead. Sherlock ended up dreading it within a matter of minutes. He supposed that was Mycroft's idea.

Mycroft returned shortly, once again locking the door. He watched his baby brother for a while, leaning on the cane he had collected from the umbrella stand in the corner of the flat. It served as a permanent reminder to Sherlock and John didn't even notice it. It seemed this time, he'd forgotten said reminder.

He whipped the cane through the air, so it produced the distinctive whoosh sound. He was delighted when Sherlock flinched, clearly having deduced where Mycroft had been by now.

But still, Mycroft didn't speak, in fact, he wandered over to his brother's bed and settled back against the headboard, instantly regretting not having Sherlock strip off first. He could see Sherlock fighting the urge to turn around.

Eventually though, he let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, before clearing his throat.

“Turn around, little brother,” he ordered once he'd sat up on the bed, his feet dangling off the side.

Slowly, painstakingly, the detective shifted around, inch by inch. His face was exactly as Mycroft had anticipated.

“You ready to be punished now?”

Sherlock's eyes darted to the floor, he would have ducked his whole head if he could. “Yes, sir.”

Mycroft nodded once, his eyes sharp and focused on his brother.

Sherlock found himself wishing his flatmate would wander in. It would embarrass him, but he was sure it would stop Mycroft looking at him in such a disappointed manner.

“There's something else I'll be adding to this punishment, Sherlock.”

His head snapped up at that. “Mycroft-”

“You know what it is, boy.”

The use of that name made Sherlock's head lower once again. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“We'll start on that, shall we?”

Sherlock nodded slightly.

“Come here.”

Cautiously, Sherlock began to shuffle across the room, staying on his knees and keeping his head low.

“How do you administer your drugs Sherlock?”

He looked up and frowned.

“Don't play dumb!”

“My hands.”

Mycroft folded his arms across his chest. “Do you want to try that again?”

“My hands, sir.”

“Good.” Mycroft reached around him and unsnapped the cuffs. “Hold them out.”

Sherlock whimpered softly, but did as he was told, as slowly as he could before Mycroft would take it as insubordination.

“Keep them still, little brother.” He removed the collar quickly so that Sherlock couldn't hurt himself and immediately the younger man stared at the floor between his arms and closed his eyes tightly shut.

He couldn't help his flinch when he felt Mycroft raise the cane up, but he hated his brother's sigh of disappointment more.

“You have a decision to make, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn't respond, verbally at least, but he was most definitely listening.

“I'll give you four on your hands, both at the same time. Or three on each and I'll allow you to hold your other hand steady.”

Sherlock blinked away tears with no idea why they had sprung up now.

“6,” he said eventually. It was the easier choice.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“6, sir.”

“Do not slip up again.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Right hand first.”

Cautiously, Sherlock began to straighten his arm. He gripped his right wrist in his left fist and closed his eyes again, he couldn't watch.

Mycroft actually made him jump when he brought the cane down 3 times in quick succession.

“Fuck!” Sherlock yelled, falling away immediately and shaking his hand as if it would help. His hand burned like fire blooming across his palms.

“Language, baby brother.”

“You could have bloody warned me!”

Mycroft reached out and grabbed him by the curls. He shook him once. “Watch. Your. Tone.”

Sherlock didn't bother trying to pull free, but he felt the need to plead to the sentimental side of Mycroft that only ever came out when they were around each other.

“Myc, you don't need to-”

He was cut off when Mycroft shook him again, then dragged him back to the spot he had been in moments before.

“Next hand. And then it will be your arse.”

Sherlock pouted, but reached his left hand out. He immediately regretted trying to grab his wrist to steady it. He hissed in air between his teeth as the fabric of his jacket brushed across the heat of his hand and glared at his brother.

“Hold it out, Sherlock. I am doing this because you need to stop using the drugs. Recreational or otherwise.”

“You shouldn't have locked me in that cell, Mycroft!”

“I had no choice! You shot Magnussen in the head. At point blank range, without provocation.”

“Oh, he provoked me. He pissed in my fireplace!”

“Give me your other hand, Sherlock and stop wasting time.”

“Myc, I can't. Please.”

“Address me properly, Sherlock.” Mycroft's tone was decreasing in pitch and Sherlock realised he'd pushed Mycroft too far already.

“Sir, please, I can't…”

Mycroft wanted to get on with the punishment at hand because it was taking far too long as it was and all he really wanted to do was lie down and hug his brother. So rather than make him actually ask for what he was after, he inclined his head.

“I will hold it for you, Sherlock.”

The younger man sighed visibly in relief. “Thank you, sir,” he puffed, letting out a great lungful of air.

The government official stepped around to the side so he could better hold his wrist and strike the cane.

This time he took his time. He gripped his brother's wrist tighter when the first stroke landed.

The detective closed his eyes slowly, trying to control the pain, it was far more difficult on his hands then it had been anywhere else in the past.

Sherlock cried out when the second one came down, just below the first. He didn't bother trying to fight his brother over the last stroke, it was going to happen and Mycroft seemed pissed off enough.

“What was that for, Sherlock?” The older Holmes asked when he was done.

Sherlock stared at the red lines marking his palms where his hand was still in Mycroft's grip.

“The drugs, Myc, sir.”

Mycroft nodded once and then let his hand go. “6 of the best on your arse, 10 minutes in the corner and you'll be done.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lean over the bed then.”

Sherlock shakily, got to his feet, staring at his now red hands. He folded his arms into a box shape against the bed and buried his head in them.

Mycroft reached around him and unbuttoned his trousers. He tugged them down until his brother's pale arse was on show.

“You don't need to count, the only words I want to hear are your thanks. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock's voice was muffled by the bed clothes, secretly glad he didn't have to count. The mere idea was awful, the action would have been worse.

Mycroft gave his arse a fleeting touch of his hand before he straightened up and weighed the cane.

He took a deep breath and lowered the cane sharply.

Sherlock's yell was muffled by the bed clothes, he could feel his arse throbbing already.

“Why, Sherlock? Why do you always have to push your luck?”

He gave Sherlock a moment to reply, but when he didn't, lowered the cane again, directing the blow below the previous one.

“Why Sherlock?” Mycroft barked.

“I don't know! I needed to. For John. For Mary.”

“They are not my concern, little brother, you are!”

“I'm sorry, Mycroft. I really am.”

After 2 strikes, Mycroft could see his brother had learnt his lesson already, he felt guilty. That was all he needed.

“Sherlock,” he knelt with one leg on the bed and ruffled his brother's sweaty curls from where his head was buried into the duvet. “You've got another choice to make, little brother.”

His tear stained face glanced over his shoulder, but he didn't speak. He didn't even look Mycroft in the eye.

“3 more strike of the cane and half an hour in the corner, or 6 more and no corner time at all.”

 

All Sherlock wanted was Mycroft to hold him, he would give anything - do anything - for that, “6, sir.” He didn't even have to think about it; the answer was obvious.

The government official's eyes widened, in shock. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, sir. Please.”

Still frowning, Mycroft straightened up.

He raised the cane and dropped below the last stroke.

3 parallel lines covered Sherlock's arse, his pale skin making the red contrast the white. He hovered his hand over the reddened flesh and felt the heat rise away from it. He silently winced in sympathy, just 3 more.

As he let the sixth blow fall, Sherlock whimpered out a quiet, “Thank you, sir.”

“Good boy,” Mycroft ran his hand over the small of his back for a moment, soothingly, before he glanced at the cane. He remembered what happened the last time Sherlock had come out of his reverie and saw it. He quickly headed to the door to get rid of the cane and bring back tea.

Unnoticed behind him, the detective fell off the side of the bed and wrapped himself in a ball on the floor. Why had Mycroft gone? Had he upset him? He hadn't… he just wanted the cuddle part.

Mycroft's initial thought when he opened the bedroom door and saw no baby brother, was panic, but he knew his brother hadn't left the flat. He placed the two mugs of tea on the unit and walked around the bed. “'Lock?”

Sherlock was whimpering to himself. He was so caught up in his misery, he didn't notice his brother until he had his hand on his shoulder.

“Shh,” Mycroft whispered. “Up you get, into bed.”

“I'm s-sorry, M-Mycie, I'm r-really s-sorry.” The rambling of 'sorry' continued even as Mycroft picked him up and placed him on the bed.

It was a struggle, but after a few minutes he managed to get comfortable, but more importantly, managed to get Sherlock comfortable. The detective ended up further down the bed, laid on his side.

It took a while longer, but eventually Mycroft managed to non-verbally persuade him to rest his head on his chest.

***

“I need to know something, Sherlock,” he whispered after a while.

Sherlock's sobbing and rambling had dwindled down to nothing by now, but the only chance Mycroft had of keeping it that way, was the continual smoothing of his mess of curls.

“Yes, sir?”

“Mycroft, now. Not sir.”

Sherlock nodded his head jerkily.

“Why did you choose 6 strikes rather than 3?”

“6 would be quicker than 3. I just wanted to cuddle you.”

Mycroft let out a breath, and leant over to kiss his mess of hair. “I love you, little brother, punishment or not.”

Sherlock's nod wasn't that confident and Mycroft sighed. He pulled him further up the bed, keeping him on his side, as a tucked his head under his chin. “Always, Sherlock, always.”


End file.
